


running uphill

by loganes



Series: the space between blue lines [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7144922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ah, Pearson, this is why we do it. You’re like a—a— I don’t know, guys, what’s something that gets riled up really easy?” </p><p>“Cats? I feel like cats get riled up,” MacKinnon offers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	running uphill

At least the game in Minnesota goes about as well as Dylan could have hoped: he and MacKinnon each end the night with a couple points after they make it through overtime, 4-3 not an ideal score in Jordy’s eyes, but it’s another win and that’s what counts. Even if Dylan _wasn’t_ having a phenomenal rookie season on his own, this is going to be one for the books, he thinks.

They’re heading into the holidays riding a solid streak of wins, a couple losses interspersed here and there, which doesn’t change that they’re second in the league and everyone is asking what happened to the lackluster Avs of the past few years. Jordy’s no longer backup after the Olivier trade so that’s had something to do with it, and Proulx has been on fire, a necessary addition to the defense, someone Dylan’s grateful to have at his back on the ice. 

This many months in and there’s still a feeling of excitement, Colorado behind them with all the fair-weather fans, Pepsi Center packed every game, and it’s unreal that there are people in his jersey now, his name and number on the back. It’s funny how quickly Denver has become home, especially after Minnesota, which— seeing his brother mostly reminded him of exactly what he isn’t missing, feels a different kind of freedom now that this is actually his career. He gets recognized almost every time he goes out, and MacKinnon pulls him aside once to talk to him about what it means that he’s in the spotlight, that he’s got media attention, tells him to be careful with his image and all that shit, but like, Dylan is eighteen. They can’t expect him to be a saint.

He tries to take it to heart, though, and mainly hooks up with that one bartender he met at the beginning of the season, Melissa. She’s cool, casual and not looking for any strings, and he knows he can trust her not to post any godawful morning-after nudes of him, which is kind of the most important thing. Definitely no guys, not that he got to do much while he was with the Knights either, and it’s certainly easy enough to stick to girls knowing that there’s a whole lot more on the line now than there used to be. 

Road games give him a bit more leeway, a little more anonymity, and he’s itching to go out and find some tail the night after their game in Tampa, first loss in a while, but no one’s all that down about it, not much shame in losing to a team doing even better than they are in a 2-1 game. Dylan’s always been a sore loser, isn’t happy with a futile effort no matter how it ends, but whatever, if Coach can’t find fault with how they played then Dylan can’t really be too bummed either.

They haven’t had a layover in Florida yet and it’s nice as hell, no traces of the end of hurricane season in the heat, only his teammates are assholes and haven’t given up on pranking him yet, something he has to put up with every so often because it’s “his honor as a rookie,” according to Nielsy, so when he goes to get ready with Proulx his entire bag has disappeared, god damn it. Proulx abandons him pretty quick, yelling something about a buddy in town and no cover charge before eleven down the hall before he’s out of sight, fucking typical. 

McNamara, of course, is no help there, nowhere to be found, probably already out and drinking, so Dylan knows he’s not behind it, not enough ease to their relationship for pranks. He’s got his usual suspects of Rowe, Jordy, and Jordan, so he ends up banging on Rowe’s door obnoxiously until his fist hurts.

“Let me the fuck in,” he yells, nose against the door. He’s got a brilliant fake ID and they’re in _Florida,_ come the fuck on, he needs his shit.

He hears a muffled yelp, and then the door opens a crack. Jordan peers down at him, ridiculously tall even out of skates, and Dylan crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating.

“What can we do for you?” Jordan says, lofty, blocking the doorway. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dylan says, and pushes Jordan back into the room. It takes a lot of effort, but he manages, and yeah, there are Jordy and Rowe and _MacKinnon_ , all sitting on the couch looking way too casual.  “Can I have my bag? I want to go out,” he says, aiming for stern and falling somewhere around bitchy instead.

“Have you misplaced it?”

Dylan glares at Jordy. Jordan is stifling laughter behind him. “This is the most childish fucking shit you guys have ever pulled. It’s not even a good prank, like, it’s just annoying—”

MacKinnon, who’s supposed to be captainly and above all this, just snorts and goes back to his phone.

Rowe grins, and then Dylan notices he’s holding his phone up, like he’s _videoing,_ probably going to send it around snapchat. “Ah, Pearson, _this_ is why we do it. You’re like a—a— I don’t know, guys, what’s something that gets riled up really easy?” 

“Cats? I feel like cats get riled up,” MacKinnon offers.

“Or like, a bear,” Jordy says.

Dylan flips them all off, and then makes a grab for Rowe’s phone and misses terribly. “Guys. Come on.”

“What, you trying to give Ry-Mack a run for his money, going out whenever we’re on the road?” Jordy says.

“Shut up, I barely, like, I don’t even go out that much,” Dylan protests, because he doesn’t, and fuck if they’re going to compare him to McNamara, who must have a second liver and superhuman energy to get by the way he does.

“Speaking of, where _is_ Mack? He hasn’t been hanging around lately,” Rowe says. “Not you,” he adds, when MacKinnon raises his head. Dylan was expecting it to be a pain in the ass, playing on a team with two Jordans (even though one’s a first name and one’s a last, they both manage to go by some variation of Jordan, which just figures, them making things difficult) and two ‘Mac’ last names, but it’s been okay. Once he figured out that Jordy was never to be called Jordan, and Jordan refused to go by Parizeau, everything worked itself out, for the most part. McNamara’s just McNamara to Dylan, so that helps.

“Probably getting drunk,” Dylan says. “Unlike me.”

“Just stay in, have a beer here with us,” Rowe says, and this is unbelievable, the fact that they’re still not owning up to _stealing his bag_. They have a brief stare down, and Dylan wants to protest more, but then MacKinnon gets up, hands him a beer, and now he can’t find it within himself to leave.

“Ugh, fine,” he mutters, snatching the Coors from MacKinnon and walking around the coffee table to sit on the edge of the couch, a good distance away from Jordy who’s still got a strange, mischievous glint in his eye. “I hope there’s something better on,” he says, all passive aggression, eyeing the basketball with distaste. If they’re going to make him stay, they can at least agree to watch something worthwhile, like the San Jose game, or the Bachelor. 

“You’re such a bitch sometimes,” Jordy sighs, but it sounds fond, so Dylan just grins at him as he changes the channel. At least the AC is blasting and he’s got a beer.

 

*

 

The five of them end up working their way through a thirty-rack, MacKinnon begging off after three because he’s clearly an old man, and Dylan is decidedly not sober by the end of the episode. Brad, Brett—whatever his name is—is passing out the roses, and Rowe is loudly ranking the girls in the order that he would pick them.

“Okay, what the fuck,” he shouts, hands in his hair, as the guy gives a rose to a blonde and bypasses one of the brunettes standing to her left. Dylan thinks they all look pretty much the same, but whatever. “That girl looks like Megan Fox and he went for fucking Amy Schumer, is he _blind_.”

“She’s better than Schumer, dude, she’s got a rack on her,” Jordan says. “Plus, always blondes, that’s not even a question.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Dylan says, the first thing he’s said in a while, and he blinks, doesn’t really know why he said it— doesn’t have a preference, generally, aside from ‘attractive’ and ‘willing’.

“My man,” Jordan says, and fist bumps him. 

Some kind of marathon must be on, because then another episode starts up, and Dylan’s just drunk enough that he’s bored with it, getting antsy again. Of course, he’s still in sweats in a teeshirt and without any change of clothes, so there’s nothing he can do about leaving, but he thumbs through his phone while the guys are distracted by some exotic date happening, sends a quick snap to Melissa in case she’s down to trade nudes.

His phone buzzes in his lap half an hour later, but it’s not Melissa.

 _Cab yiou pick me up it’s Ryan_ , it reads, from an unknown number.

“What,” Dylan mouths at his phone, just enough sound around the syllable that Rowe cranes his neck over, nosy.

“Sexting over there, Dyls?” Rowe taunts when he whips his phone out of reach.

“I wish,” he mutters, shifting on the couch until there’s no chance anyone can see his texts and sends back, _Why? Whos phone is this???_

_Borrowed, no way back toth hotel_

Dylan glances around, makes sure no one’s interested in what he’s doing anymore, and then bites his lip. The text—misspelled as it is—is not altogether unexpected, given McNamara’s penchant for getting hammered when he shouldn’t, but he usually manages to make it back on his own, and always has his own phone on him. It’s not even that late, not quite one o’clock yet, but honestly, how is Dylan even supposed to get him? They’re not in Denver, it's not like he can borrow anyone’s car. He’s hyperconscious of Rowe at his side, doesn’t want to ask for suggestions and give McNamara away, and isn’t really all that eager to pass off the responsibility either, for some reason. 

It’s gotten worse, this weird kind of silent trust they’ve got going on, at least on Dylan’s side, and then there’s also the fact that McNamara would seriously owe him for this. Dylan’s gone to pick up buddies hundreds of times in numerous places, at various distances, but this isn’t like that; the lunch with Danny still feels like an aberration, and he actually hates that McNamara apparently cares more about getting fucked up than about hockey, might even consider it karma for McNamara to wake up in a parking lot without his wallet or his phone. He flips his phone over in his hand, staring blankly at the carpet, lit by the television. There are too many worst-case scenarios here for him to _not_ go get McNamara, is the thing, and. Well. Last time he got to be around a drunk McNamara, it didn’t feel like they were fighting anymore, felt easy, and it’s so fucked, but he wants that again. For all the things that are infuriating about him he can’t let go of wanting McNamara’s attention, however that attention may come, so he already knows what’s going to happen before he makes an excuse to dip out on the guys. 

 _Text me an address then_ , he types out, hesitating over ‘send’ for a split second.

He pushes himself off the couch, making an effort to force a yawn as he does. “I’m beat,” he tells them, eyeing MacKinnon where he’s snoring lightly in his chair.

Jordy and Jordan both say something along the lines of goodnight, but Rowe stops him before he leaves, holding up a finger and disappearing into the bathroom. When he comes back out he’s got Dylan’s bag, of fucking course. Dylan rolls his eyes and takes it. “Not worth it,” he says, but there’s no heat left behind the words, since he feels pretty good about the evening aside from the anxious knot in his stomach, courtesy of one Ryan McNamara.

“Tell Mack he should be better at looking out for his roommate's shit,” Rowe says before he leaves, grin on his face, and for a second Dylan is worried Rowe knows where he's going, but then he relaxes, realizes he's just talking about the stupid prank. Dylan’s feeling impatient now, knows his phone buzzed at least once in his pocket, and just gives Rowe a half-hearted salute before he lets the door close behind him.

He has to stop in their room before he can leave but he calls for the Uber on his way, dropping the bag on his bed and making sure to grab his wallet (just in case McNamara has a tab open, or something) and his room key. The Uber’s prompt, there before he can get down to the lobby, his Adidas slip-ons flopping around on his feet. Surge-pricing is ridiculous since it’s a Friday but it’s not like there’s any way around it, so he just gets in the backseat and tells himself that McNamara can pay him back.

The address McNamara gave him doesn’t take them too far, twenty minutes from the hotel, maybe, and Dylan stares out the window at Tampa’s nightlife, girls in short dresses and high heels stumbling around with guys in button ups. It’s fucking hot out, even this late, and he feels less regretful about not going out than he did earlier.

 _Almost there,_ he texts McNamara, hoping he still has this person’s phone, and lets out a relieved exhale when they pull up outside the club and McNamara’s already right there, leaning heavily against a trashcan. 

“Hey, uh, I’m just gonna grab him and then I’m coming back, is that cool?” he asks his driver. 

“Yeah, man.”

Scrambling out, Dylan ignores how out of place he looks in sweats right now, instead gets a hand on McNamara’s shoulder and shakes him a little. “Hey, Mack. Ryan,” he says, sharper when McNamara just looks at him with glassy eyes. It pisses him off, like, Dylan is doing him a huge fucking solid here, but then McNamara leans into him, heavy and too-warm in the humid air, and Dylan’s too distracted keeping him upright to stay mad. He looks over to make sure his Uber is still there, and it is, thank god, doesn’t want anyone else taking it, so he starts moving, urging McNamara along with the arm he’s got wrapped around his waist, fingers pressed into his oblique. “That’s it, you’re doing good,” he’s murmuring, only half aware of what he’s saying, and finally shoves McNamara into the backseat, climbing in after him.

The driver looks back at them dubiously, then says, “I’ve got puke bags behind my seat. Don’t mess up my interior,” which, okay, is a valid concern, what with how McNamara’s kind of swaying where he sits. 

“Got it,” Dylan says, and then tells him to head back to the hotel. McNamara has started listing into Dylan’s side, no space between them because McNamara couldn’t be assed to move farther than the middle seat, and Dylan clenches his teeth, praying McNamara doesn’t puke on him. “McNamara,” he says, nudging him in the side, “wake the fuck up. Where’s your phone?”

“Uhhhhhh,” McNamara says, helpful as ever. “Dunno. Hey, why do you call me McNamara? No one calls me my, my full last name.” He’s practically speaking into Dylan’s neck, and Dylan’s pulse stutters when he feels it, McNamara’s soft exhale against his skin. He’s about to try and move away, out of McNamara’s space, when he speaks again, so low Dylan actually has to strain closer to hear him.

“D’you wanna know why I hate you,” McNamara mumbles, and Dylan goes still.

That’s when McNamara decides to lean forward, grab one of the plastics bags shoved into the back of the driver’s seat, and throw up into it.

“That better not be on the seat,” the driver mutters.

“Fucking hell,” Dylan says, helping McNamara hold the bag while he throws up some more, turning his face away in case he gets secondhand nausea from the smell. The driver floors it back after that, and they’re at the hotel within five minutes, Dylan stumbling through an apology while he tugs McNamara out of the car. Once everyone’s upright and no longer puking, Dylan figures he should probably get McNamara some water and into bed, but he can’t let it go, what McNamara said in the car, because that question has been driving him crazy for months, and he’s not letting McNamara sober up before he gets an answer.

He’s selfishly rough, manhandling McNamara into the elevator and then their room, rushing through it because he needs this, needs a reason, even if he’s feeling a little sick knowing that McNamara actually does hate him. “Okay, sit the fuck down, dude, I’m getting water,” he says, pushing McNamara toward the couch, and then goes to fill up a glass. His heart his beating wildly, can feel it in his fingers, and he takes a second just to breathe, remind himself that it’s not a big deal, McNamara’s just drunk, nothing’s even different. It doesn’t help.

“Here,” he says, holding the glass of water out to McNamara, who takes it wordlessly. He doesn’t know how to bring it up again, only knows that he has to. “What you said in the car,” he starts, licks his lips. “You were gonna tell me why you hate me.” It feels wrong to say it out loud, like ‘hate’ is not the right word for whatever’s going on with them, but he supposes it’s the only one that fits. 

McNamara laughs, this low, bitter sound, and sets the water down on the floor by his feet, body tense like he’s gearing for a fight. Dylan forces himself not to take a step back.

“You haven’t figured it out?” he slurs, sitting back against the cushions and crossing his arms. He’s looking right at Dylan, and there’s so much there on his face, anger and something worse. “You fucking— you realize my contract is up this year, right? I, I’ll. I’m gonna be fucking traded, probably, because you came in, saved the fucking day, let’s all thank god for first-overall Dylan Pearson. We’re fuckin’, we’re winning again, and—” McNamara hiccups angrily, “—and it’s not because my game suddenly got better. You’re here to take my _place_ ,” McNamara snaps, drunk but not lacking in malice, and Dylan has no idea what to say. It’s nothing he was expecting, isn’t really sure what he was expecting, but it certainly isn’t this, this pain in McNamara’s eyes, and here Dylan’s been, thinking he doesn’t care about hockey.

The back of his calf knocks against the edge of the coffee table, and he sits down on it abruptly, knees nudging against McNamara’s across from him in the small space. “I didn’t know,” he says numbly. “I didn’t— I don’t want to replace you.” 

McNamara laughs again, so hollow and pained that Dylan winces. “No, I’m sure you don’t.” He reaches up to take his hat off with clumsy fingers. “It’s like, I’m already washed up, at twenty-two. Peaked early. It fucking sucks,” he says, blunt, and then finally looks away, down at his lap.

 Dylan’s tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth as he tries to find words, tries to tell McNamara he’s wrong. “Are you—that’s such bullshit, man. You can’t have the kind of year you had three years ago every year,” he says, because it’s true. It’s rare for anyone to produce that consistently every season, the way the game is played, all the skill and speed and finesse, teams changing talent so often.

“I was supposed to,” McNamara shrugs. “The, the numbers I was supposed to put up? Haven’t been hitting ’em.”

Dylan shakes his head adamantly, thinking through the statistics. “You are this year, you’ve got more goals than _me_ ,” he says, can’t keep the slight petulance out of his voice.

McNamara laughs for real, now, and leans forward before Dylan knows what’s happening. His hair’s disgusting, as sweaty as the rest of him and curling slightly at his neck, but Dylan doesn’t make any effort to move away. “You’re fuckin’ something else,” McNamara smirks cruelly, says it around a sneer as he jabs a finger into Dylan’s chest. “That’s all on you. My point production? It’s ‘cause of you. ‘Cause you can play with anyone, make anyone look good. That’s not me.” He’s slurring most of his words together by the time he shuts his mouth, and Dylan wonders if he’s even going to remember this in the morning, unsure of whether he wants him to or not. He can’t figure out which would be the worst outcome for them— McNamara going on like Dylan doesn’t know anything, more of the same, or… some kind of fallout from this, now that the tension has resulted in something. 

“This is my team, I don’t—I don’t want to go anywhere else,” McNamara says, and it sounds like it hurts him to admit it. It might even be hurting Dylan, this strange uncomfortable pressure building beneath his ribs, beginnings of a headache coming on, and the way they’re sitting, across from each other where there isn’t anywhere else to look, is not helping.

He waits to see if McNamara wants to say anything else, and when he doesn’t he stands up and steps back immediately, needs to be out of McNamara’s space, like, yesterday. There’s something unfurling in his chest that feels suspiciously like guilt.

“Fuck you,” he says. It's not the right thing to say. “This—this isn’t my fault.”

“Pearson,” McNamara says, and then Dylan feels a hand closing around his wrist. He sucks in a breath, because McNamara’s right there, standing too close, and _fuck_ McNamara for being the handsiest drunk, some kind of vice around Dylan’s ability to escape. Dylan’s whole body is hot, thrumming with anxious energy, and he just wants to go to bed, sleep off this irrational responsibility he feels for McNamara’s place on this team, for his happiness, of all fucking things. 

“Let go,” Dylan says, but it’s a weak protest at best.

“I know it’s not your fault,” McNamara says. “But it’s still… it’s still shit, Dylan.” His voice cracks on Dylan’s name, fingers tightening around his wrist, and Dylan’s probably not sober enough for this either, too many beers, that and his exhaustion making him punchy. It’s still not excuse for the way he pulls McNamara in, wrapping his free arm around McNamara’s waist so that his face is tucked against Dylan’s shoulder. They barely touch when they celebrate on the ice, and this is a lot, all at once; Dylan’s never been big on physical affection, but McNamara practically melts into it, shaking a little, and Dylan lets go of his hesitation, lets it happen, because clearly McNamara needs it.

They stay like that for several minutes, McNamara booze-heavy where he’s pressed against Dylan, and Dylan already knows there’s no good conclusion to this, so when McNamara eventually steps back, eyes bloodshot and tired, Dylan can’t help it, says, “I want you to remember this when we wake up,” half a whisper in the space between them, and hates himself for sounding so young.

McNamara looks at him evenly, and Dylan holds his breath.

“I want you to stop calling me McNamara,” he says, an echo of Dylan’s words, and then he’s walking past Dylan to get into bed before Dylan even has a chance to be disappointed.

He doesn’t move for a good couple of minutes, doesn’t think he could if he wanted to, and it isn’t long before McNamara’s breathing evens out. There’s no way the morning’s going to be pleasant, because even if McNamara—Ryan—doesn’t remember any of this, Dylan’s sure as hell not going to forget it, and if Ryan does remember, well. Dylan knows Ryan well enough to know that this will just make him lash out, same way he’s done every other time he’s been nice to Dylan. If this had been reversed, if it was Dylan in Ryan’s place, drunkenly baring his soul to his competition, he’d be embarrassed as hell, wouldn’t want to think about it ever again, and he can’t stop running over all of the worst-case scenarios here in his head while he brushes his teeth. The problem is that he can’t even picture what a friendship with Ryan would be like, after months of whiplash between hostility and detached silence. He eventually drifts off thinking about how despite everything, they still play great hockey together.

 

*

 

Needless to say, he sleeps like shit, and when he wakes up it feels like he didn’t sleep at all, eyes gritty and stinging a little. Ryan (all of his fucking baggage) is on his mind as soon as he’s awake enough to focus on it, lying still in his bed and facing the wall, too afraid to roll over and find out whether Ryan’s still asleep or if he’s gone. 

It’s factually true that Ryan’s putting up better numbers than he has in years on Dylan’s line, but in the harsh gray light of morning the rest of his words hold some weight too. Dylan doesn’t make it his problem to worry about other guys’ contracts, but he feels like he should’ve known about Ryan’s, especially because he’s not cheap, a significant amount of cap space dedicated to him. Ryan, who’s a top-three draft pick just like Dylan, who thinks his career’s as good as over, who thinks he’s getting traded. Dylan has never been quite sure as to how Ryan feels about the Avs, but after last night it’s clear Dylan doesn’t have a clue how to decipher what Ryan cares about. 

He braces himself and sits up on his elbows, finally looking over at Ryan’s bed and— it’s empty, covers a wreck the way they always get after Ryan drinks. Dylan’s so relieved he laughs once, out loud, even though he feels a little sick with all the ambiguity. Whatever, he’ll take it, because at least he doesn’t have to deal with it when they’re alone in a room together. 

He packs in record time, since the majority of his stuff was already in his bag when he took it back from Rowe the night before, and then he looks at the room uncertainly, not entirely sure he wants to leave yet. His stomach’s not feeling too hot, though, and he needs to get some food to settle it, so he throws on a sweatshirt and heads reluctantly down to the lobby. 

Naturally his eyes go right to Ryan when he arrives, because that’s how his luck tends to go, and he looks for just long enough to see that Ryan’s tucked into a corner with MacKinnon and Nielsy, already finished with his breakfast. He lets out the breath he’s been holding and pulls his gaze away, heading over to where Rowe and Jordy are piling plates at the buffet, heaps his own with scrambled eggs and as much bacon as he thinks his nutritionist would let him get away with. Everything in him is screaming discomfort, and he knows it’s probably just him, that it’s not visible to anyone else, but then Ryan glances up, notices him staring, and he stops short on his way to the table. 

Jordan promptly bumps into him. “What the fuck, Dyls?”

“Nothing,” Dylan says too fast, hoping that’s that, but when he sits down, Rowe raises his eyebrows.

“Did something happen?” he says, sounding—legitimately concerned, for once, and Dylan is not the fucking mood to rehash his night like a chick after prom to Blake Rowe.

“Yep. Didn’t sleep much. Tell McNamara he owes me a fucking relaxing vacation,” he says, voice tight, and his tone must get the point across, because Rowe just presses his lips together, briefly, and then changes the subject.

 

 *

 

When they land in Denver the air’s cold and dry, thin in Dylan’s lungs in a way that feels good after the thick humidity of Florida. He hangs back as everyone else gets off the plane, waiting for Ryan to pass his seat; Ryan always sits in the far back, something Dylan’s never understood, as someone who likes to be on and off planes as quickly as physically possible. He’d wait, but he can’t let too much time pass, knows that’d be letting Ryan off easy, and he’s so sick of zero accountability. Before Ryan can flee he stands up, blocking the aisle, and he sees surprise flicker over Ryan’s face before his expression shuts down. 

“What do you want?” Ryan says slowly, like he honestly cannot believe Dylan is in his way right now.

Dylan’s mouth is suddenly very dry, and he regrets chucking the remains of his water bottle. “Can we—are we—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Ryan says, consonants harsh. “I shouldn’t have said any of that to you last night. It’s out there now, so whatever, no going back, but it doesn’t change anything. I just want you to remember that.” Ryan is perfectly still except where his fingers clench by his side. Dylan catches the motion in the corner of his eye, doesn’t know what it means, what Ryan’s not saying. It’s clear he’s not allowed to ask. This is, technically, better than what he thought would happen, but it’s—colder, a sense of finality to it, and he’s too startled by it to argue even though he feels oddly bereft. 

“Okay,” he says awkwardly, and steps aside so Ryan can leave, wishes he didn’t have to follow him out.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr](http://larraza.tumblr.com) :)


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